


Flood of Water

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-26
Updated: 2006-12-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 09:51:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: "Please tell me you know how this happened," Sam said."Yeah," Dean said. He sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and let his arms fall away from his chest, his clasped hands settling in his lap. His t-shirt clung to him, worn thin from too many washings, and Sam could see the heavy weight of his breasts, his nipples hard in the cold air.





	Flood of Water

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to txtequilanights for the beta.

South Dakota in December was a bleak, unending line from one horizon to the other, and so cold that the car heater couldn't fully warm the interior of the Impala. They pulled over at one of the rest stops along I-90, and Sam stood by the car, blowing into his hands, while Dean went inside to piss.

The prairie was flat, blanketed with snow. A few trees broke the line of the earth, low and scraggly, bare black branches against the pewter-gray sky. Sam had only been in South Dakota in the summer, when it was still desolate but at least warmer, and minivans full of tourists chugged along in the right-hand lane of the highway.

Dean came back out, squinting against the wind. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "I'm fine."

"I just, if that fever's coming back—"

"It isn't," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "I just need a few days, I'll be fine."

"Yeah, okay," Dean said. "Get in the car, what the fuck are you doing standing out here, anyway? It's gotta be twenty below."

"Just needed some air," Sam said, and opened the passenger door.

They stopped in Kadoka that evening, near the Badlands. Dean usually pushed on for a few more hours, but Sam saw the looks Dean was giving him and didn't say anything. He could use the rest. The fever was gone—he hadn't been lying about that—but he still felt shaky and exhausted, and he wanted to curl up in a bed and sleep for about twelve hours.

"I mean it, Sam," Dean told him, tossing his bag on the bed nearest the door. "You start feeling bad again, you tell me, okay?"

"I'll tell you," Sam said. It had been over a year since Dad died, but Dean still got freaked out every time Sam was sick or injured—like he thought he was going to lose Sam, too. Sam didn't know how to tell him otherwise. He wanted to.

He brushed his teeth standing over the little sink behind the door. He needed a haircut. There was a zit on his chin, red and hard. He spat a wad of mucus into the sink.

"Dude, that's gross," Dean said.

" _You're_ gross," Sam said.

He woke up later, disoriented, and sat up in bed, squinting against the dim glow of the lamp. Dean was standing by the door, toeing off his boots.

"What time is it?" Sam asked, his voice scratchy.

"Dunno," Dean said. "Late. Early. Go back to sleep."

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean said gruffly. "Go to sleep."

When he woke up again, the curtains were backlit with gray morning light. He sat up in bed, wincing a little as his sinuses drained. The room was freezing; Dean had probably turned it off during the night—he always got hot in his sleep. The squat black alarm clock on the bedside table blinked red, 7:24. The coffee maker was going already.

Sam staggered over to the bathroom and knocked on the door. "Man, I need to pee, are you in there?"

"Pee in the sink," Dean said.

"No," Sam said. "What are you doing in there?"

"Nothing," Dean said. His voice sounded funny—higher, softer, and Sam really hoped Dean wasn't getting sick, too, because the last thing they needed was to have both of them under the weather at the same time.

Sam frowned, worried. He jiggled the doorknob—it was locked. "Dean, seriously, let me in. Are you okay?"

"Christ, would you just fuck off," Dean said.

Sam leaned his forehead against the door. "If you don't let me in, I'll kick the door down."

"No you won't," Dean said.

"Yeah, I really will," Sam said. "Open the fucking door, Dean, Jesus Christ."

Dean said something, too low for Sam to make out, and then opened the door just a crack, one eye and the side of his face visible.

"Dean," Sam said. He wedged his shoulder into the narrow opening and pushed. Dean staggered backward, his arms crossed over his chest, and Sam rubbed one hand over his face, disbelieving. The person standing in front of him was still clearly Dean, but— _Jesus_.

"Shut up," Dean said.

"I didn't say anything," Sam said. "Dean. What the _fuck_."

Dean shrugged, his face pale, and whatever humor Sam might have found in the situation was quelled by the sheer misery in the set of Dean's shoulders, the awkward curl of his toes against the linoleum floor.

"Please tell me you know how this happened," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said. He sat down on the closed lid of the toilet and let his arms fall away from his chest, his clasped hands settling in his lap. His t-shirt clung to him, worn thin from too many washings, and Sam could see the heavy weight of his breasts, his nipples hard in the cold air.

Sam swallowed and looked away. "So, yeah, how'd it happen."

"I went out last night," Dean said, looking down at his hands. "To a bar. There was this chick, she—anyway, I dunno, I guess I pissed her off or something, she did this to me."

"You fucked her," Sam said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. It wasn't like he and Dean had agreed to anything, but still, sometimes he hoped—

"Yeah," Dean said. "Anyway, she's gone. I asked around, nobody knew who she was. Guess she was just passing through."

"Fuck," Sam said. "What are we gonna do?"

"I dunno," Dean said. "Look, can I—I'm gonna take a shower."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Uh, yeah. Okay."

He ended up peeing in the sink.

Dean came out after a while, a towel wrapped around his body and tucked high up beneath his armpits. He looked about the same—a little slimmer, maybe, his muscles less pronounced, but still narrow-hipped, tall. But with tits. Sam wondered about the physics of it, conservation of mass or whatever, and then forced himself to stop.

"Quit starin' at me," Dean said.

"Sorry," Sam said, and looked back down at the laptop screen. He wasn't finding much. He'd never heard of anything like this before, and Google was just turning up a bunch of useless crap about liminal gender status and shamanism.

He snuck a glance over the top of the computer. Dean was crouched on the floor, rummaging through his duffel, clutching the towel close to himself with his free hand.

"You're looking," Dean said, and Sam darted his eyes away again, guilty.

"So you're sure the chick who did this has left town," he said.

" _Yes_ ," Dean said. "You think I wanna stay like this? Nobody's seen her before."

"Okay," Sam said.

Dean shuffled into the bathroom to change. He came out again wearing jeans, a button-down, a t-shirt—the same clothes he always wore, but they hung ridiculously on him, too big. He'd rolled up the cuffs of his jeans, the sleeves of his shirt.

"Dude," Sam said. "You look like a really butch lesbian."

Dean ran one hand over his bristly hair, scowling. "So?"

"So we're in South Dakota," Sam said. "Put on your boots, we need to go buy you some clothes."

"They're too big," Dean muttered, and then exhaled loudly. "Jesus, why are you worrying about my clothes? Maybe we should focus on _turning me back_."

"It's not that easy," Sam said. "I can't find anything about it on the internet. It might take a few days."

" _Fuck_ ," Dean said. He rubbed a hand across his mouth. "I can't—Sammy, I can't _stay_ like this."

"I know," Sam said. "We'll figure it out."

They went to a thrift store in Rapid City. It was snowing, and the Black Hills were misty and ominous, barely visible through the low-hanging clouds. Sam parked at the rear of the strip-mall lot, far away from the doors. It was a Thursday, near lunch-time; not many people were out, just a few harried-looking moms with kids in tow.

Sam got out of the car and drummed his hands on the roof. The wind on the interstate had blown most of the snow off the Impala, but the metal was frigid beneath his palms.

Dean got out too, finally, scowling and hunched deep into his jacket. "It's fuckin' cold," he said.

"I know," Sam said. He crossed to the other side of the car and got Dean in a headlock. Dean had lost a few inches, and he tucked easily into the crook of Sam's elbow.

"Get off me," Dean said.

Sam started marching toward the door—dragging Dean with him, willing or not. Dean flailed around, cursing, but Sam had been stronger than him even before—before. Now it was effortless. He was sharply aware of how much smaller Dean was now, more fragile, his pointy elbows digging uselessly into Sam's ribs.

"I know what you're thinking about, you dickhead," Dean snarled. "I can still kick your ass, don't make me prove it."

"Sure," Sam said, and shoved open the door with his foot.

The bell tied to the push-bar swung back and hit the glass, jingling. The woman at the counter looked up from her magazine, snapped her gum, looked back down.

"If you try to put me in a skirt, I'm gonna kill you," Dean said.

"No skirts," Sam said.

He sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, while Dean sorted through the racks and made pained dear-god-please-save-me faces. Exhaustion was settling over Sam, thick and heavy, and he thought longingly about the back seat of the car, warm from the heater, and the fuzzy blanket they kept back there, a present from Jo.

"Wake up," Dean said, bumping the toe of his boot into Sam's thigh, and Sam snapped his eyes open.

"I'm awake," he said. "What? I'm awake."

"Sure," Dean said. "I'm ready to go."

"Nope," Sam said. "Show me what you're getting."

"I think I can pick out my own clothes, Sammy," Dean said.

"I don't trust you," Sam said. "Let me guess, a bunch of flannel and t-shirts in your regular size."

Dean shrugged. "So what."

"So we're in South Dakota," Sam said. "Go put all of those back."

"Fuck you," Dean said.

The hobo shuffling by stopped to stare at them, the whites of his eyes brilliant against his dirty face.

Sam stood up. "Go put them back," he said, getting up in Dean's space, crowding him. Dean looked up at him, narrow-eyed, but he sneered and stomped over to the racks.

What Dean needed was something girly enough to appease the locals but manly enough to appease Dean. Sam picked out a few short-sleeved blouses in solid colors, a black cardigan, a purple v-neck t-shirt.

"I'm not wearing purple," Dean said, appearing at Sam's elbow.

" _I_ wear purple," Sam said, and Dean said, "Yeah, cause you're a fuckin' _girl_ ," and then fell silent, chewing on his lip.

"Here," Sam said, handing Dean the pile of clothes he'd picked out. "Go try these on."

Dean looked at the top shirt, a button-down with a subdued floral pattern. "I'm not wearing _flowers_ , either, Jesus Christ."

"Would you just _go_ ," Sam said.

He followed Dean into the changing area and sat on one of the the rickety plastic chairs, cracked orange relics of the 70s.

Dean shoved the curtain aside after a while and stood there, brow furrowed, wearing a white t-shirt and a blue hoodie, unzipped, and a pair of jeans that mostly fit. He looked like a cute girl with an unfortunate fondness for G.I. Jane.

"That works," Sam said.

"Jesus, finally," Dean said, and shrugged off the hoodie—he wasn't wearing a bra, and it was obvious: the swing of his breasts, the dark circles of his nipples visible through the thin fabric.

"Dean," Sam said.

" _What_ ," Dean snapped.

"You, uh. You should probably buy some underwear."

"I've got my shorts," Dean said.

"I mean. Maybe a few bras," Sam said.

Dean shook his head sharply. " _No_. No way. I'm not doin' it."

Sam sighed. "Dean—"

"No," Dean said again, crossing his arms. He was beautiful—features that had always been startling on a man, too pretty and unexpected, were startling now for a different reason. Dean was the sort of chick men turned their heads to watch as she walked by.

"Okay," Sam said. Dean tugged the dressing room curtain shut again.

The fluorescent lights buzzed dimly. A teenage girl came in and gave Sam a dark look. A woman and a little boy came out of a stall, the boy making airplane noises.

Dean came back out, dressed in his own clothes. "Let's go," he said.

He changed in the back of the car while Sam snuck glances at the rearview mirror, watching the pale, flexing curve of Dean's back, the new flare of his hips. Outside, the snow drifted lazily, blown by a breeze Sam couldn't feel. He watched as Dean wiggled into a disturbingly low-cut blue sweater and a pair of jeans, tugged on his new sneakers, slid on his leather jacket.

"That's too big for you," Sam said.

"It's my boyfriend's," Dean said. "Okay? He went off to Iraq and left me his jacket to remember him by. Jesus, Sam, lay off."

"Okay," Sam said.

Dean climbed over the seat and squirmed around until he was situated behind the steering wheel. "These jeans are too tight," he said.

"They're supposed to be like that," Sam said.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean said, fiddling with the side mirror. "I'm hungry. You want Applebee's?"

"Sure," Sam said.

Dean went to the bathroom after they put in the order for their food, and Sam took the opportunity to call Bobby.

"I need your help," he said, as soon as Bobby picked up.

"Why, hello there, Samuel, nice of you to call," Bobby said.

"Yeah, hi, Bobby," Sam said. "Dean's turned into a woman."

"Dean's turned— _what_ ," Bobby said.

"I know it sounds crazy," Sam said. "I didn't believe it, either, but he _is_ , he's got—you know."

"The works," Bobby said.

"Yeah."

"Well hell, Sam, I sure don't know what to do about that. Where are you at right now?"

"South Dakota," Sam said. "Rapid City."

"Why don't you go see Ramsey? He's over there in Wyoming. Greybull."

"I thought he was still in Alabama," Sam said. A slow headache was building behind his eyes, sharpening to an agonizing point.

"Nope," Bobby said. "He moved a while back, maybe six months. Go see him, he might be able to help you."

Dean came back to their booth, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. "Women's bathrooms are really freakin' clean," he said, sliding onto the bench seat.

"I called Bobby," Sam said.

"What, what'd you do that for," Dean said, grimacing.

"We're not gonna solve this on our own," Sam said.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean said. "What'd Bobby say?"

"He said we should go see Ramsey. I guess he's living in Wyoming now."

"Yeah, he's over there in Greybull," Dean said. He pulled the wrapper off his straw and crumpled it up, dropped it on the table.

"How come you know this?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "I know everything."

When they left Applebee's, Sam curled up in the back seat, wrapped in his parka and the blanket. Lying there, all he could see through the window was the gray sky and the fat snowflakes drifting down. He could almost pretend that he and Dean were the only people left in the world.

He slept easily, lulled into it by the steady thrumming of the Impala's tires against the highway.

He woke up when Dean cut off the engine. "Where are we," he mumbled, and yawned. His head felt better, and the heavy layer of exhaustion had lifted, mostly.

"Wyoming," Dean said. "First rest stop across the border." He was still a woman. Sam had been hoping it was just a fever-dream, but as usual, he wasn't that lucky. Dean looked pinched and unhappy, hunched over the steering wheel.

"Okay," Sam said. "You want me to drive for a while?"

Dean hesitated. "Uh. Would you?"

"Yeah, man, of course," Sam said. "I gotta pee first, though."

"Yeah, me too," Dean said. They got out of the car and walked toward the low concrete building, bluffs rising up behind it, the white earth, the dense sky.

Dean followed him into the men's room and stopped, frowning, and ran a hand over his head.

"I don't think you can use the urinals anymore," Sam said, as gently as he could.

"I. Yeah," Dean said. "I forgot."

When Sam got back out to the car, Dean had taken off his jacket and was sitting in the passenger seat, slumped down, his knees pressed up against the dashboard. Sam opened the door and slid in. The interior of the car was still warm from the heater, but it was leeching out fast. A layer of snow had already built up on the roof.

Sam leaned over and kissed Dean's ear, the corner of his eye. "It's gonna be okay," he said.

"Don't," Dean said.

"Don't what?" Sam asked, puzzled.

"Any of it," Dean said. "Just. Don't." He buckled his seatbelt.

Sam stopped in Gillette just as it was getting dark. He bought snow tires at a local auto parts store. They didn't usually bother changing the tires during the winter, but they'd be leaving the interstate the next day, and Sam didn't want to take any chances. Dean was pretending to be asleep, and Sam left him in the car while he went inside.

There was a Motel 6 right by the highway. Sam pulled into the parking lot. "I'm gonna go check in," he said. "Can you put the snow tires on the car? We're gonna be crossing the Big Horns tomorrow."

"I _know_ ," Dean said, not opening his eyes.

He got them two queens. Dean was antsy at the best of times, and Sam got the feeling he wouldn't want to share a bed that night. He took their bags upstairs, dumped them on the floor. The room faced the motel next door. He could hear trucks on the highway.

He went back outside. It had stopped snowing. Dean had gotten two of the tires changed, and was crouched on the ground beside the third, struggling to loosen the nuts.

"I'll finish up," Sam said.

"I've _got_ it," Dean said, straining at the wrench.

"Dean," Sam said. "Let me do it."

Dean rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head down, the wrench dangling from his right hand. "I hate this," he said.

"I know," Sam said. "Just a few more days, all right? We'll go see Ramsey and get this figured out."

"Yeah," Dean said.

"You wanna go order a pizza?" Sam asked.

"Okay," Dean said. "I'm putting it on your credit card, though." He stood up and handed the wrench to Sam.

"You mean the fake credit card you got for me?" Sam asked, taking it.

"That's the one," Dean said.

The pizza was delicious. They sat together on one bed to eat it, swapping the liter of Coke back and forth. Dean wanted to watch some crap on the Discovery Channel about crab fishermen, and sulked until Sam gave in and handed him the remote.

It was actually kind of interesting, despite the Discovery Channel's typical melodrama, and Sam found himself watching attentively.

Dean tossed the empty soda bottle onto the floor and belched loudly.

"You're still a pig," Sam said.

"I feel weird," Dean said.

"Like, weird like you're gonna vomit? Don't puke on me, Dean, I'm serious."

"No, weird like. I dunno." Dean shrugged. He'd stripped down to his t-shirt in the warm motel room, and his tits moved as he shifted on the bed, rising and falling. Sam tried not to stare.

"You _are_ biologically a woman now, you're probably just adjusting to the new hormones," Sam said.

"Oh god," Dean said.

"What?" Sam asked.

"This just gets worse and worse," Dean said, and dropped his head back against the headboard with a thunk. "Jesus Christ."

"It's not _bad_ , is it?" Sam asked. "Like, you don't feel sick?"

"No," Dean said. "I just. I dunno." He exhaled noisily, his nostrils flaring. "I can't even walk right, man, my center of gravity's off, and I just—"

"You think it's gonna fuck up your hunting," Sam said.

"It will," Dean said. " _Christ_."

"We're going to figure it out," Sam said. "Ramsey'll know what to do."

"Well, he'd better," Dean said, "cause in the meantime, being a chick _sucks_." He hesitated. "I think you were right about the bra thing."

Sam smirked. "Dude. Did you just admit that I was right about something? Are we having a discussion about our feelings?" Dean wasn't as reticent as he'd once been, but Sam was still surprised to hear him talking about it so openly.

"Shut up," Dean said, still staring up at the ceiling. "My tits hurt." He moved his hands up and cupped them, lifting, like he wasn't thinking about what he was doing. Sam followed the motion with his eyes and swallowed hard, seeing Dean's callused hands curved around his own breasts.

Dean dropped his hands away. "This sucks," he said.

Sam reached out and lay his hand over Dean's left breast, rubbing his palm over the nipple. It hardened under his touch, pebbled, and Dean shivered. Sam's fingers tightened involuntarily, and then Dean pulled back, turning to put his feet on the floor.

"I can't," he said.

"What? Why not," Sam said.

"It's different now," Dean said. "Okay?" He got up and went into the bathroom, shut the door with a loud click.

They slept in separate beds that night.

In the morning, they drank free motel coffee in the lobby. It was snowing again. Sam watched as a man in a Hawaiian shirt came down the stairs and stared openly at Dean's ass as he walked by, heading for the counter. Dean didn't seem to notice.

They bought breakfast burritos from a convenience store and ate them in the car. Dean drove. He'd pulled the seat closer to the wheel, and Sam's legs were even more cramped than usual. He didn't say anything.

There wasn't much to see on the interstate between Gillette and Buffalo—miles of fencing, empty snow-covered pasture land, the occasional antelope. He drank his cheap coffee and let his mind go blank.

"I spy with my little eye…something boring," Dean said.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Me, right?"

"Yeah, how'd you guess," Dean said.

"All right, Mr. Thrilling Conversationalist, let's hear it," Sam said, shoving his empty coffee cup under the seat.

"Maybe we could talk about our feelings some more," Dean said, deadpan.

Sam eyed him. He actually couldn't tell if Dean was joking or not. "Are you serious?" he asked.

"Yep," Dean said. "I want to share my innermost thoughts with you, Sammy. Maybe soon our souls will merge and become one being."

Sam snorted. "You're insane," he said.

"Yep," Dean said, and he broke into a smile, then. "Had you for a second, though, didn't I?"

"You did," Sam admitted.

"You're a sucker," Dean said.

"Born every minute," Sam said.

They got off the interstate at Buffalo. 16 was plowed and sanded, but the sharp curves winding up to Powder River Pass still had Sam clutching at the dashboard, especially with the way Dean drove.

"Oh my god, would you please slow down," Sam said.

"Quit bein' such a pussy, we've got snow tires," Dean said.

"They won't stop us from plummeting to a fiery death if you take the turns too wide," Sam said.

Dean made a chirping motion with his hand and pressed his foot down on the gas.

"Glad to see some things don't change," Sam muttered, and Dean shot him a glare.

The other side of the Big Horns was more arid, fir trees replaced by low sagebrush and scrub. They went down, following the creek into Ten Sleep Canyon. There were little clusters of boarded-up cabins, all the tourists gone home for the winter. Sam stared up the sheer cliff faces, marveling at how deep the river had cut, all the millions of years it must have taken.

Dean was in good spirits, whistling through his teeth—he probably thought Ramsey would fix everything right away, and they could head on to Idaho like they'd planned. Sam was less certain. His headache was back, and he felt cold inside his bones, like his marrow had frozen. He didn't know what was happening to Dean. He was scared.

That was the hardest part. Being scared.

The landscape turned into desert as they went on: endless rolling miles with no buildings in sight, just fences and access roads, the earth dry and unwatered and barren. Sam had never been to this part of the state before, the vast, empty middle of it, and it made him feel small and uneasy.

They hit the irrigated strip along the Big Horn River, small towns clustered close to the water and fields spreading out beyond, all fallow now, and dusted with a thin layer of snow.

Greybull was tiny, quiet, the sort of town you could pass through and barely even notice. It was easy to follow the directions Bobby had provided. Ramsey lived in a well-kept two-story house, set back on one of the streets near the river.

Dean parked at the curb and they got out, walked up to the porch. Sam rang the doorbell. Dean was shivering and small inside his coat, and Sam's arm twitched with the impulse to wrap around Dean's shoulders and tug him close.

Ramsey came to the door, his dark, creased face unreadable, but his eyes were warm. "Bobby told me you boys might be showin' up," he said. "C'mon it, it's cold out there."

The inside of the house was warm, cluttered. Ramsey led them back to the kitchen, where the radio was turned on and something was cooking on the stove. He sat them at the table with a pot of coffee and leaned back in his own chair, looking at Dean appraisingly. "You always did like women too much for your own good," he said.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing. "Ramsey—"

"It's all right," Ramsey said. "Bobby told me all about it. I've got to say, I sure haven't seen anyone else in this sort of predicament."

"But you know how to fix it, right?" Sam asked.

"Might," Ramsey said, shrugging. "I've got a couple spare rooms upstairs, for when my grandkids come to visit. Why don't you boys stay here for a while. We'll see what we can figure out."

"Thanks, Ramsey," Sam said.

"Least I can do," Ramsey said. "You go get your bags from the car, I'd like a word with Dean."

Sam went outside and got their duffel bags from the trunk. A few birds were sitting on the power line overhead, chirping. It was still overcast. Sam could hear the river, rushing along its bed. He shut the trunk and went inside.

Ramsey was still in the kitchen, stirring the pot on the stove. "Dean's upstairs," he said. "Look, Sam, I want to be honest with you about this. I don't know if there's much I can do. I've never heard of this sort of thing before.

"You've—okay," Sam said. He swallowed. "We can—we'll figure something out, though, right?"

Ramsey put the lid back on the pot. "I hope so."

Dean had picked the room overlooking the back yard, and he was sitting on the end of the rickety double bed, picking at the frayed knees of his new girl-jeans.

Sam paused in the doorway, his hand tightening on the frame. "What'd he want to talk to you about?"

Dean shrugged.

"Right," Sam said. "Okay."

Dean was quiet all through dinner, picking at his food, and he went upstairs right after, his socked feet squeaking on the treads. Sam forced himself to wash the dishes before he followed.

The door was closed. Sam nudged it open with his foot. Dean was standing at the window, staring out at the darkening yard, and he turned around when the hinges creaked.

"Did I say you could come in?" he demanded.

"No," Sam said. He shut the door behind him and crossed the room, curled his hands carefully around Dean's shoulders. Dean wasn't that much smaller than he had been, but it was enough of a change that he looked tiny and helpless to Sam.

Dean scowled up at him, mouth twisted downward. "I thought I told you—"

Sam kissed him, heading him off at the pass. Dean's mouth was the same, warm and soft, and his hands came up to grab at Sam's shirt, the same as always, and Sam closed his eyes and leaned into it, longing.

Dean turned his head away, and Sam's mouth trailed across his cheek, the skin there smoother than the closest shave could have made it. " _Sam_ ," Dean said.

"Why don't you—" Sam started, sliding one hand around the back of Dean's neck, cradling his head.

"Because," Dean said. "It's just—it's different, okay, it's weird now."

Sam huffed out a surprised breath, almost a laugh. "You're the same person, Dean. I still want to fuck you through the mattress on a regular basis. That hasn't changed."

"Yeah, well, I _have_ ," Dean said. He stepped away, moving out from beneath Sam's touch. "And maybe I won't change back. Huh?" He crossed his arms under his breasts, holding himself, his skin pimpling with goosebumps. "Go to bed."

Sam went.

He slept long and soundly that night, and woke up feeling better than he had in weeks, the last traces of sickness lifted away from him. The car was gone when he looked out his bedroom window. He clattered down the stairs, alarmed. Ramsey was in the kitchen, listening to NPR and reading the paper, and he looked up when Sam barreled in.

"He went shopping," Ramsey said. "He'll be back."

Sam blinked. "Shopping for what?"

"Didn't say," Ramsey said. "I'm going to work soon; library has Saturday hours. I'll be back this evening. I put some books on the coffee table; you might want to look through them, see what you can figure out."

Sam made himself some toast and scrambled eggs and read the paper while he ate. Finished, he wandered around downstairs, looking at Ramsey's photographs, his hunting knives, the throw pillows on the sofa. Ramsey's wife, Darlene, had died about five years ago, but her influence was still apparent in the way Ramsey kept his house.

That was a real life, Sam thought. One that left things behind after it was over. All they had left of John was a few weapons, tossed carelessly into the trunk, and the creased photographs Dean carried in his wallet. And each other. John had left Dean, and that was more valuable to Sam than anything else, even the safe life he'd dreamed of.

He heard the car door slam outside, and then the doorbell ring. He went to the door—it was Dean, of course, flushed from the cold and holding a few plastic shopping bags.

"Where've you been," Sam said, stepping aside to let him in.

"Went shopping," Dean said. He kicked off his sneakers.

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "What'd you get?"

Dean sighed. "Some bras," he said.

Sam smirked. "You need some help putting on one?"

"Pervert," Dean said, glaring, and stomped off up the stairs.

Sam spent most of the day going through Ramsey's books. There were a lot of them—Ramsey loved books the way only a librarian could—but none of them seemed to have any information that could help Dean. Sam read about fertility magic, gender identity, African ethnomedicine, various mythological beings who could switch sexes at will—but nothing concrete, no rituals, no potion Dean could drink to turn himself back.

Dean wandered in and out, restless, pacing the downstairs. He sat down for a while with a book, got up and went outside, came back in and read some more, went into the kitchen and banged around in there. It was making Sam insane. After lunch, he finally said, "Dean, would you go take a walk or something, man? You're drivin' me nuts."

"Fine," Dean said. He grabbed his keys and stomped out of the house. Sam heard the Impala start up a few moments later.

Sam was engrossed in an article about berdaches when Dean came back, but he looked up when he heard the door open. Dean came into the living room, his shoes in his hands, and sat down on the couch next to Sam.

"I went for a walk," he said.

"You feel better now?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "I guess. I just—this is really weird."

"I know," Sam said.

"I don't feel like myself," Dean said.

"I know," Sam said. He leaned forward and kissed Dean, his hand cupping Dean's jaw, his other hand spanning the flare of Dean's ribs. Dean's mouth opened, and Sam took that as a green light, lying back and tugging Dean on top of him.

It was strange to be kissing Dean—the familiar taste of his mouth, but his new body, his tits pressing against Sam's chest, his narrow waist arching beneath Sam's hands. It was strange and _good_ , and Sam rocked his hips up against Dean's, seeking friction.

Dean pulled back and sat up, flushed and panting. "Sammy, I can't," he said.

"Yeah, I got that," Sam said.

Dean leaned down and kissed him hard, his tongue a wet blur against Sam's lower lip, and then he sat up again, got off the couch. "Jesus," he said, and rubbed one hand between his legs, pressing against the seam of his pants.

Sam groaned and dropped his arm over his eyes.

"I'm, uh. I'm gonna go upstairs for a while," Dean said.

"Okay," Sam said.

For dinner, Ramsey made corn pudding, boiled red potatoes, and chicken. Sam had two plates.

"You sure got a stomach on you," Ramsey said, laughing.

"It's good," Sam said, his mouth full. Dean kicked him under the table. Sam kicked him back.

"Darlene always said a man who didn't know how to cook a good meal was an embarrassment to himself," Ramsey said. "She made the best greens I've ever tasted."

"She was a good woman," Dean said.

"She was," Ramsey said. He snorted. "She hated your daddy the first time she met him, you know."

Dean grinned and leaned back in his chair. "Really?"

"Oh yeah. This was way back, before he'd even met Mary. He was in the area and he dropped by for a visit while Darlene was at work, and when she came home she looked at me like I'd grown horns and said, 'Who is this sorry-lookin' white boy in my living room?'"

Dean laughed, thumped his hand on the table. "That's awesome," he said. "What'd Dad say"?

"He looked her right in the eye and said, 'My name's John Winchester, and I'm here to visit your husband, miss,'" Ramsey said, grinning.

Sam barely paid attention to what was being said—he was watching Dean, the easy way he smiled, the way he talked about John with just a lingering hint of grief, not the huge, wordless pain he'd carried for so many months. He could tell that Dean had forgotten, just for a moment, here with a man they'd known all their lives, about the reason why they were here.

He could tell the instant Dean remembered it, too—he watched Dean reach up to scratch his chest, hit unfamiliar flesh, falter. His smile broke. He set his beer bottle on the table.

"So, uh, Ramsey," Sam said into the silence that descended. "I went through those books today."

"Find anything?" Ramsey asked.

Sam shook his head.

"I wanted you to learn that for yourself," Ramsey said, "so you won't think I'm not going to do everything I can to help Dean."

"That's not real reassuring," Dean said.

Ramsey shrugged. "You're not here for me to tell you pretty lies, boy. I'm off work tomorrow; I've got a few rituals we can try. Not promising anything, though."

"It'll work," Sam said. "Something will. Right?"

"Let's clear off this table," Ramsey said.

Sam went to Dean's room that night, late, after Ramsey was asleep, but the door was locked.

After breakfast the next morning, Ramsey put them to work: grinding herbs, chalking out sigils on the living room floor, practicing phrases in Sanskrit and Greek. He sent Sam to the store for candles, and when Sam got back, Dean was sitting cross-legged on the floor, shivering, wrapped in a sheet.

"One down," Dean said, looking at him.

Sam set a hand on the back of Dean's neck, rubbed his fingers soothingly against the skin behind Dean's ears; and if that was the sort of touch that didn't normally pass between brothers, Ramsey didn't say anything about it.

"All right," Ramsey said. "Next one. Sam, go get me two eggs from the fridge."

It took them most of the day. This was what Ramsey knew best—obscure bits of folklore, rituals from dozens of cultures—but nothing worked. Sam obediently waved chicken feathers and dusted Dean's face with saffron powder, but he watched with mute, growing despair as Dean kept failing to turn back.

Ramsey called a halt at dinner time. "We'll pick this up tomorrow," he said. "Sam, you help me with the cornbread. Dean, you go wash that blood out of your hair."

They were all quiet at dinner, worried or preoccupied, or maybe just hungry. Sam only knew what was inside his own head, the slow roil of doubt and tragedy.

He slept easily that night, from exhaustion and a simple desire to avoid his own thoughts. He woke up when the mattress shifted—Dean was climbing into bed with him, curling up, his back to Sam's front. Sam draped his arm over Dean's waist and tugged him closer, burying his face in Dean's warm neck. He didn't know what time it was. Late or early.

"I've missed you," he murmured, still half-asleep. The room was dark, and cold, and Sam felt cocooned in it—safe, for once in his life. Moonlight lit a square on the plank floor, enough for him to see the short bristle of golden hairs on the back of Dean's neck.

Dean didn't say anything.

Sam moved his hand under the hem of Dean's t-shirt, stroking the soft flesh of his belly, and higher—the undersides of his breasts, his nipples. Dean made a low noise in his throat and shifted, pushing his tits against Sam's palm and inner wrist.

"Christ," Sam said. He wanted to spread Dean's legs apart and learn every new thing about him. "Can I—"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Yes." He grabbed Sam's hand and dragged it down between his thighs, pressing against the slack cloth of his boxer-briefs. Sam reached under the waistband of Dean's shorts and slid his fingers down, through damp curls, searching—Dean was slick and hot, swollen, and Sam bit back a moan at the feel of him.

Dean whined and clutched at Sam's wrist, his fingers digging into the tendons. "Sam," he said. " _Please_. I want—"

"I know," Sam said. "I've got you." He pressed his middle finger into Dean's cunt, feeling the resistance and pushing past it. Dean clamped down around him, muscle flexing, and Dean's breath hitched, a little gasping noise that had Sam rocking his hips forward against Dean's ass.

"You like that?" Sam asked, curious.

"Yeah," Dean said. " _Sam_ —"

"Shh, okay," Sam said. He rubbed his thumb against Dean's clit, dragging the tip across, listening to the sounds Dean was making. He pressed down, hard, and Dean squirmed against him, his nails digging into Sam's skin.

"I was— _Sam_ —I thought about this, your fingers—you—" Dean broke off, grunting, as Sam slid another finger inside, swirled his thumb in rough circles.

"You're so wet," Sam murmured. "Were you touching yourself? After I fell asleep? Maybe you were just thinking about it—"

" _God_ ," Dean gasped, and Sam stopped teasing, then; he rubbed tight, swift circles around Dean's clit until Dean's back arched and he pulsed around Sam's fingers, breathing in high pained gasps, almost like sobs.

Sam pulled his fingers out. They were wet, the tips pruned. He rolled onto his back and shoved his boxers down, wrapped his slick hand around his cock.

The springs in the mattress creaked as Dean turned over. His hand landed on Sam's abdomen, small and warm, his nails tracing invisible spirals as Sam tugged hard at his cock. Sam felt drugged. The air was thick with the musky scent of Dean's cunt, and it was twisting at something in Sam's belly, something deep and animalistic that wanted to pin Dean to the bed and fuck him until he cried.

"Are you gonna come?" Dean asked.

"That's— _Dean_ ," Sam said, his thighs quivering, and he bit down on his lower lip as he came, all over his hand and his belly.

They fell asleep, tangled together in the blankets, but when Sam woke up in the morning, he was alone.

They spent the day doing more rituals—Sam doing what he was told, and watching as the furrow between Ramsey's eyebrows got deeper, watching the way Ramsey frowned as he flipped through his books, and Sam didn't need to be a genius or a psychic to figure out what that meant.

Just as it was getting dark out, Ramsey closed the book he'd been reading from and set it back on its shelf. "That's it," he said.

"What do you mean," Sam said, still not wanting to believe.

"I mean that's everything I know," Ramsey said. "That's it."

"There's gotta be something else," Dean said, "can't we—"

"Boy, I've been studying these things longer than you've been alive," Ramsey said. "It's possible there's something that I don't know about, but you'd spend years just trying to figure out where to look."

Sam looked out the window at the parked Impala, Ramsey's battered truck, the sky turning purple toward night. "So what do we do," he said.

Ramsey hesitated. "It might reverse itself. Sometimes there's a time limit on these things. Could be he'll turn back next month, three months from now—"

"But you don't think it's likely," Dean said.

"I couldn't say," Ramsey said. "I've never seen anything like this."

"So I'm stuck," Dean said, his voice flat. "I'm stuck like this, like—"

"Dean," Sam said, helpless.

Dean got up and went to the window, the sheet trailing after him, shedding herbs and pieces of bone. "What about hunting."

"You can't be serious," Sam said.

"I'm not gonna just _give up_ ," Dean snarled. "I won't fuckin' lay down and _die_. And if I'm gonna be—be in this body, I gotta learn how to use it."

Sam turned and left the room, walking blindly down the short hall to the kitchen. He leaned over the sink, gasping, hands braced against the counter. If Dean wasn't—if Dean—

"I'm sorry," Ramsey said, behind him. "I've done everything I can."

"I know," Sam said. "Thank you."

"You boys stay here as long as you need," Ramsey said. "Give Dean some time to adjust."

Sam turned around, then, and looked at Ramsey, the bleak regret on his face. "We can't," he said. "Ramsey, we can't impose—"

"I'm offering," Ramsey said. "This house has been too quiet since Shaniqua moved back with her momma."

Sam drew in a breath; let it out again. "Thank you," he said.

"It's not a death sentence," Ramsey said gently. "You go on upstairs, now. I think he needs you."

Dean was sitting on his bed, head in his hands, but he looked up when Sam came in. His face was pale, tight.

"I can't—" Sam said.

"It won't be that bad," Dean said. "I'll get used to it, after a while, I'll—"

"God damn it, Dean!" Sam yelled, slamming his fist against the door frame. "Damn it!"

Dean let out a shuddering breath. "I'll get used to it," he said.

Sam sat down on the bed next to him, not touching. "I love you," he said. "I won't leave. Whatever you need—"

"Oh god," Dean said, "if you tell me it's what's inside that counts, I'm gonna punch you in the fuckin' eye."

"Okay," Sam said. He laughed weakly. "I won't say it, then."

"So what do we do," Dean said.

"We stay here," Sam said. "Ramsey offered. You can train. I'll help you, or—get a job, maybe—"

"Okay," Dean said. "Okay."

Dean didn't come to Sam's room that night.

They stayed there for two months. Sam got a job at the Food Barn, bagging groceries. He worked, and fixed things around the house that Ramsey couldn't do because of his knees, and he helped Dean. Mostly, he helped Dean.

He worked the early shift at the grocery store, and in the afternoons he went out in the back yard with Dean and sparred with him. Dean had taught himself to shoot again with no problem—weapons, it seemed, were just a matter of adjusting to his new size and center of gravity—but he was endlessly frustrated by the fact that he couldn't kick Sam's ass anymore.

"This _sucks_ ," he said one evening, heading inside, sweaty and bruised. "I'm just not strong enough, I can't—"

"You're not gonna be," Sam said. "You're expecting things your body can't _do_ anymore—"

"Well, it _should_ ," Dean grumbled.

"Dean," Sam said, at a loss. He remembered how Dean had been when Dad had first been teaching him how to hunt—how eager he'd been, so proud of himself, so quick to learn—but it had been nothing like this, the way Dean was pushing himself as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did, in some complicated Dean way that Sam couldn't understand.

That was about a month into their stay. The next day was Saturday, and Sam didn't have to work. Dean woke him up by doing a cannonball onto the bed.

"Oh my god, you've got to be kidding," Sam moaned into his pillow.

"Rise and shine," Dean said. "You're taking me shopping."

Sam pulled the pillow off his face. "I am?"

"Yup," Dean said. "You, uh. You know about girl clothes, right?"

"I guess," Sam said cautiously, thinking about Jessica.

"I just, uh." Dean scratched the back of his head. "People _stare_ at me all the time, I just thought—"

"Yeah," Sam said, "sure, I mean. We can go. Lemme just take a shower."

They drove south to Worland—it was bigger, there were more stores, and there would be fewer people who saw Sam and Dean on a daily basis. Dean bought some shirts, some jeans that fit him better, and it was fine, it was _normal_. The old lady ahead of them in line told Sam what a nice young man he was for helping his girlfriend with her shopping, and Dean blushed obligingly and held onto Sam's elbow, and it was—it felt _normal_. It felt like a completely ordinary thing to be doing on a Saturday morning, going clothes shopping with a pretty girl, both of them clean and well-fed for once, uninjured, smiling.

Then, in the car, Dean leaned over and said, "I'm not wearing any underwear."

Sam hit his head on the roof of the car. "Jesus Christ, Dean." He scooted away, pressing himself against the passenger side door.

"What, you don't want it anymore?" Dean asked, his hands curling around the steering wheel.

"I don't—fuck, you know I want it, shut up," Sam said. They hadn't so much as kissed since the night Dean crawled into his bed. Dean kept pulling away, coming closer, pulling away again; couldn't make up his mind, and Sam didn't want to do anything Dean wasn't absolutely certain about.

"Maybe I changed my mind," Dean said.

"Maybe you'll change it back," Sam said. "Quit trying to mess with my head, Dean."

"I'm _not_ ," Dean said. "I'm. I'm not. I just—"

"Yeah, it's weird, I know," Sam said. "Just. You can't have it both ways."

"I know," Dean said. " _Fuck_. Okay. I know."

Sam was reading in bed that night when the door creaked open and Dean came in, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of the new girl panties he'd bought that day, red-faced and fumbling at the cash register. Sam's eyes darted down to the smooth curve of Dean's ass, his strong thighs.

"Pervert," Dean said. "I see you looking."

"So put on some pants," Sam said.

"Nope," Dean said. He went to the window and dragged the curtains shut. The metal rings clattered along the rod. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, and when he turned around, Sam's breath caught at the sight of his white lace bra, his tits pushing over the scalloped edges of the cups.

"Dean," he said.

"Shut up," Dean said, smiling, eyes lowered. He reached behind his back and fumbled with the clasp of the bra, grimacing as he couldn't get it open; but he unlatched it finally, and tossed it onto the edge of the bed.

"Wow," Sam said, and then cringed when he realized he'd said it aloud.

Dean just smirked and raised his hands to his tits, twisting his nipples, and Sam's mouth was dry, his breath already coming faster. He said, "Are you sure—"

"Jesus, shut up," Dean said, rolling his eyes. He kneed his way onto the bed and knocked the book out of Sam's limp hands, hovering over him, breasts swinging. "I'm sure. Quit acting like such a fuckin' chick, that's _my_ excuse."

"Sure," Sam said, and pulled Dean's head down for a kiss.

It was too much—overwhelming, the smell of Dean's hair, the new girly shampoo he'd started using, the feel of his squirming body, his bare chest pressed against Sam's, his hips spread across Sam's, straddling him. Sam slipped one hand underneath the elastic of Dean's panties, and he was wet already, just a little bit, but it was enough to have Sam leaning forward and groaning into Dean's tits.

"Saaaam," Dean whined, grinding his hips.

"Okay," Sam said. He bit Dean's left nipple, not too hard, and Dean arched his back, his hands grabbing at Sam's hair. Sam clasped Dean's waist and rolled them, pinning Dean to the mattress, and reached down to tug off Dean's underwear.

Dean was flushed from his cheeks to his tits, a spreading red blush, and he bit his lip when Sam pulled the underwear all the way off and tossed it into the floor.

"I'm gonna fuck you," Sam said, sliding one hand up the inside of Dean's thigh, feeling hair bristle beneath his palm—Dean wasn't a big fan of shaving his legs.

"You're all talk," Dean said, his grin sharp and white.

"You think so?" Sam said. He grasped Dean's knees and tugged them apart, looking at the slick redness of his cunt, the tight, twitching muscle there.

Dean squirmed, flushing hotter, and turned his head to one side. "Sammy—"

"Do you really want me to stop?" Sam touched Dean with the tips of his fingers, stroking lightly.

"No," Dean said. " _Fuck_. Don't stop."

Sam hiked one of Dean's knees higher, spreading him, and bent his mouth to Dean's cunt, licking a slow, careful stripe, listening. Dean moaned and his other leg fell to the side, opening him more, and Sam settled in.

He'd always loved going down on Jess, listening to the noises she made, feeling her cunt move under his tongue, and Dean was—not better, but different: a different taste, lower grunting sounds, his hands firm and demanding on Sam's head, tugging on his hair, guiding him. Sam rubbed his nose against Dean's clit, slid his tongue inside; his cock was throbbing between his legs, insistent, but all he cared about was the way Dean was lifting his hips toward Sam's mouth.

"Oh god," Dean gasped, "fuck, _Sam_ —"

Sam pulled back, grinning, wiping his mouth. "Did you come? Should I stop now?"

" _No_ , you asshole, what the fuck, don't stop _now_." Dean smacked at Sam's shoulder, tugged demandingly at his ears.

"So demanding," Sam said, spreading Dean's labia with his thumbs. Dean's clit was swollen, protruding, and Sam leaned to suck at it, press the flat of his tongue against it. Dean's taste was thick in his mouth. He slid two fingers into Dean's cunt, twisting, and Dean tugged hard at Sam's hair and shouted, his back arching, coming sweet and hard.

Sam pulled back and wiped his face against the sheet. "You're gonna wake Ramsey up," he said.

"I don't care," Dean said, limbs all sprawled out, his hair sticking to his forehead. It was getting longer.

Sam heaved himself up the bed and slid his tongue into Dean's mouth. Dean sucked on it and moaned, tasting himself, and Sam shucked off his boxers, suddenly desperate to be inside Dean. He fumbled in the bedside drawer for the condoms he'd been keeping there, stupidly hopeful, but now he was glad of it. He slicked it on and hooked one of Dean's knees over his shoulder.

"Are you—can I—" he said.

Dean rolled his eyes, still boneless. "I said you could, Jesus Christ, Sam, it's not like it's—oh god," he said, and broke off into a moan as Sam pushed inside him.

Sam bit his lip hard at the feel of it, Dean tight and so hot around him, his little untouched cunt giving way. He bucked his hips helplessly, and he was all the way in, then, the head of his cock bumping against Dean's cervix.

Dean hissed through his teeth, eyes closed.

"Is that okay?" Sam asked, worried, stroking a soothing hand down Dean's side.

"Is it— _yes_ , Sam, fuck you, would you _move_ —" Dean said, lifting his other leg to wrap around Sam's waist, tilting his hips up.

"Oh god," Sam said, "oh god," and gave in to it, his hips driving him into Dean, and he would have been embarrassed by how quickly he came if Dean hadn't been gasping beneath him, a surprised expression on his face, like he'd just been told something he hadn't expected to hear.

Dean got up, afterward, and went to the bathroom across the hall; came back, turned off the lights. "Can I, uh. Can I sleep here?"

"Yeah," Sam said, "Dean, yeah, of course." He tossed the sheets back and pulled Dean into bed with him. Dean made a sleepy noise and curled up against him, their legs tangling together, and then rolled away after a while, on the edge of sleep.

Sam ran one hand down Dean's spine, tracing the bumps of his vertebrae. "Are we okay?" Sam asked softly, afraid of the answer.

Dean made a noise like laughter, a low huff of breath. "Yeah," he said. "Sam. We're okay."

Dean got his first period a few days later. He didn't say anything about it, and Sam probably would never have known if he hadn't been rooting around in the medicine cabinet, looking for some Advil, and found the box of tampons Dean had stashed behind Sam's shaving cream.

He went downstairs. Ramsey was at work; Dean was curled up on the sofa in front of the TV, wearing a pair of Sam's sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Dude," Sam said, the box in his hands.

Dean looked over and made a face. "Christ," he said.

"Are you feelin' okay?" Sam asked.

"I guess," Dean said, shrugging. "I might puke. Come over here and maybe I'll even get it on your shoes."

"I'll pass," Sam said. He hesitated. "Seriously, man, are you okay with this?"

"Not like I have a choice," Dean said, and changed the channel.

It unsettled Sam more than he thought it should have. He was still thinking of the whole thing as something temporary, like Dean would turn back any minute—and maybe he would, but maybe—

They left in March. Dean was getting antsy, and Sam knew it was time to move on.

"I dunno, Sam, the hunting—"

Sam rolled his eyes and tossed Dean's duffel into the trunk of the car. "You're _fine_ , Dean. Quit worrying. I'm not worried, and I'm the one who's counting on you to cover my ass."

"Yeah, but—"

"Go get your other bag," Sam said.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, mouth twisting. "Yeah, okay," he said.

Ramsey stayed home from work to see them off. His knees had been bothering them, and he hobbled out to the car when they were ready to leave.

"You boys keep in touch," he said. "You ever come through here again, stop by for a few days, all right?"

"Of course," Sam said. "Thanks, Ramsey. For everything."

"My pleasure," Ramsey said. Dean hugged him, unexpected, and the look of shocked happiness on Ramsey's face had Sam covering a smile with his hand.

It was a sunny day, cold, clear. They drove north on 310, toward the interstate. Dean made Sam drive—he said he wanted to sleep. Sam watched as Dean flipped down the visor and looked at his hair in the small mirror there, fussing with it. He'd been pinning it back as it got longer, pulled back out of his eyes. He needed a haircut.

"We could go to Mexico," Sam said. "It's warm there. You could lie on the beach in a bikini."

"You just want to rub tanning oil on my tits," Dean said. "Admit it."

"Maybe," Sam said.

"Nympho," Dean muttered, slumping down on the seat. He was pre-menstrual and cranky, and Sam really wasn't looking forward to the next ten hours. He looked out the window at the snow-capped Big Horns, the flat basin land receding behind them.

Dean flipped the visor back up and started messing with the underwire of his bra, tugging at it, contorting his body around to adjust the straps. Sam put up with it for ten minutes before he lost patience.

"Dude, would you stop wiggling around like that? Either take it off or leave it alone," he said.

"Fine," Dean snapped. He tugged the straps out through his sleeves, then pulled the whole bra out and dropped it in the back seat. "You happy now?"

"Yup," Sam said.

Dean crossed his arms, scowling. "This sucks," he said. "You don't realize how easy you've got it. Being a chick is _hard_."

Sam snorted. He passed a pick-up truck, an ancient blue thing hauling a dented horse trailer. "Yeah, your life is tough, Dean." He reached out and rubbed the back of Dean's neck. Softer, he said, "You could turn back any day. We just don't know. You could wake up tomorrow and..." He trailed off, not sure what to say. _Be yourself again_?

"Sure," Dean said. He leaned backward, into Sam's touch. "Any day now."  



End file.
